


The Little Biscuit Box In the Sock Drawer

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Consensual, Dom/sub, Fantasy Fulfilled., M/M, Sexual kink detected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:07:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24875134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: This is consensual. It's quirky. It revolves around how private and solitary Mycroft is, how likely to be overly-spied-upon for security reasons. It revolves around how almost all of us have something...special...and secret...that we keep in more or less plain sight because it can't really be hidden anyway. It's about how kids keep secrets. And adults do. How we use symbolic items to fill in for the real goods.It's about one person figuring something out about another-and making an offer. And it's about the other taking it up.All in the setting of kink and roleplay that depends on trust and humor and willingness to play along.I think this is one of my happy ones, even though the tone is dry and a bit spooky. Have fun.Please, do feel free to comment. I KNOW I am horrible about responding. I usually end up allocating my "free" time to write these things, not reply. But I promise, I live on your comments.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 5
Kudos: 92





	The Little Biscuit Box In the Sock Drawer

Greg discovered the evidence on an evening when he’d been sent over to Mycroft’s to fetch back some human comforts for a man in hospital. He’d received the entry codes and the codes to shut down Mycroft’s security from Anthea, been told to pick up pajamas, a robe, slippers, hairbrush and tooth brush and manicure set, to tide the man over while he was stuck flat on his back recovering. He’d been told to pick out suit complete with fittings and shoes and tie and more, with Anthea suggesting a particular brown tweed he was far from sure he’d recognize, but which Anthea thought might best resign her superior to a few weeks of quiet in the country with someone hired in to look after him. The man’s appendix had been infected for quite a long time, before being triggered and escalating with sudden fury: the combination of slow debilitation and sudden cascading illness had left him in need of rest.

Or had left MI-6 with a longed-for excuse to make the boss Go. Away.

In any case, Lestrade spent fully half-an-hour trundling like a pill bug around Mycroft’s residence, adding and subtracting items from his own list of things he wanted to see while he had the chance.

The man, he discovered in glee, did indeed keep tub toys. Including but not restricted to a rubber ducky. He kept a few more that suggested erotic adventures Greg could not quite script in his mind. But that, of course, was none of his business, beyond confirming the man had a libido and the right specific inner gender alignment to value a substantial waterproof dildo vibrator…and that all the toys Greg discovered could be used as well by one alone as by two at a time. He found no specific “couples” devices.

He collected a bedside Kindle. He located several different brands of cologne. At the very last, he went into the man’s sock drawer, looking for something cozier than slick silk formal socks to go with garters and suits…though he did add those, too, thinking of the brown suit Anthea had recommended.

It was in the bottom of the sock drawer he found the box. It was a canister of the classic sort used for tea biscuits, which mums and grannies had been using as sewing boxes since time immemorial or at least the first tinning of biscuits. Boys and girls had been using the same tins for as long to hold treasures. John Watson no doubt kept one with his army medals. Sherlock would certainly own one filled with weatherproof notebooks on bees.

It was smallish—by no means the holiday family box of biscuits. It was flat and rectangular with rounded corners. It proclaimed the brand of the biscuit…stirring no enthusiasm in Greg’s childhood memories. Very boring biscuits were pictured on the outside.

Without even pausing, his hand shot out, he collected the box, grabbed and assortment of soft woolen country socks fit for bounding through the Highlands without one’s ankles freezing. He put the socks in the cardboard box holding other goodies for Mycroft.

He put the biscuit tin, however, in his own briefcase.

He draped the brown suit and additional gear over his elbow, collected cardboard box and briefcase, and left the house, turning security back on as he left. He returned to rendezvous with at hospital.

He returned to work, and successfully cracked a minor case. Quite minor: it would hardly have rated a low decimal evaluation on Sherlock’s scale of interest. But he cracked it, cleared it, and left the light paperwork for Donovan to do on the grounds that Donovan had not been the one to crack it or clear it, and done so on top of playing Dogsbody and all-around gofer to Anthea and to Mycroft Holmes.

He picked up dinner at Pret a Manger, and went home.

There, he showered, changed into fleece trousers and a t, ate, opened a beer, and only then, quietly, did he risk opening his briefcase and removing the plain little tin. His curiosity burned inside.

Nothing Mycroft kept in his sock drawer could, he realized, be a real secret. Not unless it was, somehow, a secret that hid a greater secret inside, encoded in Mycroft-i-ness. After all, the odds seemed good that the secret-sniffers above Mycroft himself had their own secret-sniffers sniffing Mycroft’s underwear and socks already. Nothing in Mycroft’s office would be unknown. Just perhaps slightly misunderstood.

The powers that be would know Mycroft was gay, for example.

They’d know he detested artificial cinnamon.

They’d know he found children small and sticky and inconvenient—but also almost as endearing as cats.

They might not, however, know what was meant by a small biscuit tin containing…What?

He cradled the tin on one palm, then angled fingers on both hands to force the top from the tin.

Inside rested a long loop of soft, heavy cotton string, similar in size to that commonly used by those fond of weaving cat’s cradles. There was a smooth old glass bottle-stopper, with a ball head the size of a large radish, a narrow neck, and an equally smooth conical spike to drop securely into the neck of a bottle of water or wine or whatever you might have. There were several worn, folded handkerchiefs—three, or even four. There was a traveler’s tin of mentholated jelly, of the sort that police and medical examiners keep handy for particularly odiferous victims who float up on the tide or are found months dead in a bog. There was a small array of paper clips of many forms. A small box filled with a wide array of rubber bands, all sturdy, various sizes. \There’s a little, pocket-sized boy’s book of knots. A pocket knife. A roll of strapping tape. A packet of tissues. A bottle of sanitizer. A pair of scissors. A small set of tight-jawed clothes pins. A narrow leather strap, less than a half-inch thick with a friction brass fastener, lay in the bottom. Uncoiled Lestrade thought it might be 20” long—maybe more. Maybe enough to serve as an emergency tourniquet?

Lestrade considered it. Everything in it had the look of being chosen for utility, from supplies on hand. The handkerchiefs, for example, were worn, and old enough to have been likely enough on their way out to the bins already. The scissors and the pocket knife were simple and unmarked by more than brand. The tissues were the commonest brand, that packaged up packets like that in threes for the common trade, to be bought as an impulse buy at the check-out on rainy days when everyone had the sniffles and spotted glasses. Everything there, except perhaps the bottle stopper, seemed like the sort of multi-use object a billion people might have a use for.

Indeed, a Holmes mystery hidden inside a perfectly bland biscuit tin, no doubt long since registered by MI-6 in their redundant records of Mycroft Holmes.

He studied the objects. He considered. He reviewed what he knew: mainly that Mycroft Holmes, unlike his baby brother, did have a sex life. Was gay and out. Seemed very close to asexual in spite of that.

Had sex toys in his home.

That a solo orgasmist supreme could easily use alone.

Nothing very showy, or suggestive.

The bath toys were, on the whole, more suggestive.

A man who made love in the vast and private reaches of his mind, then.

Lestrade reconsidered the box in light of that understanding.

In the silence of his own apartment he asked himself what he himself could do of a highly naughty nature with that particular set of gear.

In moments he had an imaginary Mycroft “bound” with easily escaped by stury loops of soft twine and cord that would leave no marks. He had a strapping take gag on, and clips on his nipples, and mentholatum over his cock and balls making him cry. Deep up his arse was a bottle stopper, the neck too narrow to let the wider cone beyond get lost up his arse—but a bit of string or tape used to provide a rescue line if the improbable should happen in spite of physics and logic. His eyes were blindfolded with soft kerchiefs. Around his neck was a narrow leather strap that might easily have come from a child’s book bag, with a friction slide, serving the symbolic purpose of a sexual submissive’s collar.

Lestrade let out a slow, low whistle.

Of course, he told himself, it could be a dom’s kit to use on some secret sub. But, no. This was made to be used on someone, and there was no one who fit that picture except Mycroft himself. Just as with the dildos, this was meant to be owned and used by a single person alone.

He could imagine it, easily enough. Mycroft in his own room, the one area without constant cameras running, the lights out, with just enough streetlight from the windows to let him see what he was doing. He’d strip himself naked. He’d shower, performing quite a bit of prep in the bathroom. He’d want all this sorted out and easy to enjoy, then put away.

Naked. Clean. Hair tousled and moist Face dewy. Shivering with fear. He’d touch himself, shuddering. He’d prepare cock and balls and arsehole with mentholatum. He’d slip a thick rubber band over his cock and balls, an improvised cock ring. By now he’d be shivering and whining with his own arousal and sense of naughtiness. Bad Mycroft….  
He’d slick his lips with menthol. He’d “tape” his ankles, and set the scissors nearby to make escape simple. He’d double the loops of the cat cradle cord, and weave it around the bedstead, ready to tuck his arms into and pull for the feeling of being tied up.

Soon he has Mycroft ready in his mind. All the elements with strong sense feed. None hard to actually escape, so that he can slip one hand free and tug and play with the round bottle stopper that penetrates him, pinch and rub his own cock and balls, play with the paper clips attached to nipples and scrotum and so on.

He lets the imagined man play with himself, while silently reexamining the little kit in the biscuit tin.

It could still perform a million different functions. It’s so non-specific. But this feels right, to Greg. Mycroft, silent, solitary, with surprisingly little need to dominate, instead dominating himself on dark knights with few the wiser, and those few sworn to secrecy.

Like the humor of the bath toys, it appeals to him.

No. It arouses him. He is surprised to find himself cock hard and rising, balls pulling up tight, wanting to be the one to open the bottle stopper and decant the spy master. Let his own cock sip at Mycroft’s bum.

He shivered. How much did Mycroft really want, as opposed to the scant symbolic and sensual pleasure he’d assembled?

Did Mycroft Holmes long for someone to spank that round, tight arse? To tie him in place and take him hard?

Did Mycroft Holmes wish to kneel down to a master who’d own him? Who would discipline him hard and often? “Play House” with him night and day?

Did Mycroft yearn to be kit-free, with no access to sufficient scissors and pen-knife to get himself out of trouble? To be dependent on his master to plan everything safely?

Hng. His cock and balls were jerking with the thought of it.

Could he make Mycroft eat dinners out of his hands? Demand Mycroft prepare his tub in the morning, and suck him off before breakfast, and kneel with his arse in the air before bed at knight?

Did Mycroft want a master who’d stroke his soft, thin hair, kiss his lips, blindfold his eyes, slip naughty ice cubes up his butt, tie him to the bed…

Get him a collar and claim him completely?

He had to stop with a jolt, and return everything to the little biscuit tin, and set the tin aside, and go back to the shower for a second time that evening. Only then could he let the blooming fantasy unroll, and let himself come with crashing desire in the easily cleaned shower.

He thought about it for several days. Until, in fact, Mycroft was about to be let free to recover at home.

Only then did he take five minutes to carefully write out a note on a scrap of office paper, and tuck it into the biscuit tin, which he walked to the hospital and put in Mycroft’s box of other goods when Mycroft wasn’t looking. He helped get Mycroft off in his elegant saloon town car, and then went home to a tin of beans for tea, and a football game.

He chose not to let himself think about the note in the little box.

“If you’d prefer this safely, for real, with a master who can give you what you want, call me. GL.”

It was several days before his phone chirped out a text message.

“Do you know what you are offering?”

He thought a moment. Then he typed, “I don’t think you’d be calling if you were not interested in greater mastery. Am I correct?”

The following moments were long. Very long.

Then…

“Please, sir? I’m so…tired.”

The words pulsed with longing and despair.

Greg considered. “I don’t have the gear yet. But if we can work using the box to start—I can be over tonight. You shouldn’t let yourself get so tired.”

“Anthea is here.”

“Send her away. Tell her I’m coming over instead.”

“And if she guesses?”

“The box is your secret. But it’s never been a secret secret, ha sit?”

“No.”

“I’ll be there in an hour. I’ll let you choose how best to welcome me. Right?”

“Yes, sir. An hour, sir.”

Ten minutes later, the phone rang. Anthea…

“What are you up to with the Boss?” She was tight, annoyed…but asking.

“Nothing but a bit of social contact,” he drawled. “Mycroft’s business.”

She considered. “With…you?”

“With me.”

She considered some more. She said, after a moment, “I noticed the box missing from the sock drawer, you know.”

“Good,” he said. “About tonight…”

“Go on, go on.” A laugh shimmered in her voice. “If you leave him sore, it will still be better than that damned appendix.”

“Oh, yes,” Lestrade said.

In a sturdy cardboard box he kept under the towels in his linen cupboard he found a thick, sturdy strap of worn leather with a solid brass buckle. He took it out and slipped it into his old uniform pocket, from back in the day when he’d walked the beat. He clipped a special care of cuffs onto his belt. He looked at the solid black of his patrolling shoes. He smiled, softly.

A uniform had a certain authority mufti lacked, he thought.

He arrived at Mycroft’s house, found the doors unlocked, and went in, to find his new boy stark naked in the foyer, arse high, with a riding crop balanced on his hip bones and his face pushed into the carpet.

“Boy,” he said.

“Master,” Mycroft whispered, voice shaking.

Greg reactivated the locks. Ensured the security recordings were not running.

He came to kneel at his boy’s bum. He traced a finger from the dimple over his coccyx to the moist, precum-slicked tip of his cock.

“You intend to be mine, Mike?”

“Mycr…” Mycroft stopped, then said, voice shaking harder still. “Yes, Master. I intend to be yours.”

“I’ll spank you often.”

“Please, do, sir.”

“I’m going to make you eat out of a bowl on the floor, sometimes, just like a dog. Make you my pet, when I want a pet.”

“Yes, master.”

“Make you serve me. Your first job every morning will be to suck me off, you understand?”

“Yes, Master.”

He stroked Mycroft’s back. His boy shivered under his touch. He watched Mycroft’s bum twitch and flex.

“You want to be fucked, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Mycroft gasped.

“Like this. Hard. From behind?”

“Please, God, yes…” He sounded frantic, and he was shivering in excitement.

“It’s going to hurt, boy. I’m going to take you hard, tonight.”

“Yes, sir.”

He let that lie on the air between them for a few minutes. He slowly unzipped his flies, letting the sound crunch heavily in the dark foyer. He shoved aside the lapels of his jacket. He reached into the pocket of his jacket, and took out the strap.

With one planned, familiar move he leaned over Mycroft’s back, pinning him, weighing heavy on him. He strapped the collar around his new boy’s neck.

“You’ll be wanting that , then,” he said. “It means you're mine.”

The he straightened, targeted Mycroft’s arsehole, and went a-conquering: hard and fast and unforgiving. He grunted and chuffed, while Mycroft bore the weight and the momentum that drove him, just barely resisting and falling over. He grunted in return: higher, more desperate. Greg reached under him and found his ringed cock and balls bouncing, full and hard and tight. He played with him, without slowing his drive.

“That’s it, boy. Take it, boy.”

“Oh, oh, oh…”

“You’re mine, boy…”

“Yes…”

“Going to wear my collar, boy…”

“Yes.”

With clever fingers Lestrade found his way under the rubber band around his boy’s package. He flicked and tugged, and set them free, and Mycroft whimpered in desperation, “Master, I’m going to…”

“Do it.”

As Mycroft came, Greg came into him. Dressed overpowered naked, as they both jerked and spasmed with the power of their orgasms.

“Oh, oh, oh, oh, ooooooooh.” Mycroft collapsed, limp, but Greg caught him, and rolled him, holding his shoulders and looking gleefully at the dark shine of wet at the tip of the cock in the dark room. He traced it with one finger.

“You’re mine,” he said.

“Yours,” Mycroft agreed.

And before they both went to bed Greg made Mycroft prove that, several times and several ways over, using just the materials in the little biscuit box.


End file.
